


FLAKING OUT

by Grendoc



Category: A Nightmare on Elm Street - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Fluff and Smut, Intimacy, Listen sometimes I DO want to write evil men being soft with their boyfriends. FUCK you, M/M, Male Slash, Porn with Feelings, Reader-Insert, Sensuality, Softcore Porn, Trans Male Character, insomniac reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:41:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27801730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grendoc/pseuds/Grendoc
Summary: You wouldn’t trade him for the world, not this one, not the next, not the one growing solid around you - not a chance.
Relationships: Freddy Krueger/Reader, Freddy Krueger/You
Comments: 4
Kudos: 37





	FLAKING OUT

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SenkoWakimarin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenkoWakimarin/gifts).



> For a very, very good friend. ❤

Freddy strokes the flats of the razors along your scalp – follows the curve of it, his meagre weight sunk into your back – so sharp that when they catch a lock of hair they send it severed, scattering, to the pillowcase.

It has been easier to get into bed than to crawl out of it, these days: an unprecedented shift in your private narrative. He has rendered your sleepless nights moot with the curl of his tongue behind your ear, the sinking of his fingers into your thighs, your gut, the pillowing flesh of your chest. When you met, and he caught you, you’d gotten his cock hard against your back where you’d expected a swift death following mockery – a horny devil-animal humping into the roll of fat at the base of your spine.

(Insults or no insults, he hasn’t shut up since he met you.)

Even now, skinny legs hooked around your hips, fucking into you from above: his gloved hand is tight to your throat, so you can’t interrupt him listening to the sound of his own voice. “Bitch,” halfway between a hiss and a moan, mostly air puffed out of his nose. His cock is short and fat and it opens you around him wide instead of deep. You have no complaints – even if you did, the stubby fingers in your mouth wouldn’t let you voice them. (Krueger’s skin is pink and mottled, the texture of spat gum. You want to gag on principle, but he pinches your nose with his thumb and forefinger, jerks your head back after sticking them into your nostrils, pushing himself in as far as he’ll go) – “ _Oink_.”

Sputtered laughter.

Whether it’s yours or his or both, you can’t tell; it doesn’t matter. You’re plush, receptive, bending your back until it hurts, swallowing him up to his balls. He cums with a hitch of his breath, clawed toes scrabbling uselessly for purchase against your thighs.

Flattens against you.

“Quiet,” he mumbles – “quiet,” but he’s the one whimpering, always is. You’ve noticed before: Krueger trembles when he fills you, lengthens his arms around your waist just to hold you especially tight. You aren’t sure if it’s because he clingy or because he doesn’t sleep around as much as he says he does. Maybe both. Like most things: doesn’t matter. You throw your weight around when you catch your breath, push him back with a shoulder and roll him onto his side, turning until you’re facing him. He is smaller than he seemed that very first night: all of 5-foot-something and a hundred pounds soaking wet. Curled against you, he seems even smaller, legs tucked to chest and cock softening between them, his knees digging into your stomach’s round.

Krueger’s ear is light in your hand when you stroke behind it, notched from teeth and tapered like a knife. There are nights he reminds you of a kitten, and nights he reminds you of a snake. He flicks his tongue at you, mewls in pleasure, and reminds you of both at once. You lean in – brush your lips to the bend of his nose, to either eyelid, weary but not afraid of his claws when both of his hands find your shoulders and settle, there.

He has nothing bad to say about being rolled under your bulk.

“You don’t stay long enough,” is tonight’s grievance, half-slurred into the soft line of your jaw. You are half-asleep in a dream, drifting in and out of consciousness: you are together, and then you are not, his body flickering between reality and an empty space beneath you on your bed. “You’re always, uhm,” voice crackling that way that it does when he isn’t sure whether it’s his turn to speak – as if it isn’t always his turn to speak – “flaking out on me.”

“I know.” You can feel your lips moving, and you can feel his heartbeat thrum against your chest, travelling through meat and bone like a parasite. “It’s not – it’s not intentional.”

Krueger’s eyelids droop. His hat is on the nightstand, and he reaches for it, attempts to hide his vulnerability behind its brim … you catch his wrist, pin it to the mattress. His eyes are big and marvelously green. You settle between his legs, now: hitch his ankles up over your hips, bury your nose in the fiddle-curve of his collarbone. Inhale. “I’m bribing you,” he says, like a confession – like you didn’t already know. A responding scrape of incisors over the chords of his throat is enough to set him straight. (He hates this, when you handle him gently: not because he wants you to stop, but because he doesn’t know what to do with it, as evidenced by the color in what’s left of the skin on his cheeks, the aching tension in his shoulders when you dare to trace their narrow curves with lips instead of teeth.)

“I know,” again, “I don’t mean to.” He understands, of course, but hates this, too – that there is something in this world that isn’t in his grasp, something more powerful that binds you. He whines, and you kiss him, and run your hands up the thin line of his torso. Ride the sweater up under his arms. Thumb his nipples, where the nerves are burnt open, raw for your abuse. You kiss whatever he’s about to say right out of his mouth, and finally, Freddy shuts his eyes. A promise is whispered into the vein that throbs on his neck. “Not about you.” He fidgets – “Not anything you did wrong,” smoothing your hands up to his shoulders, pinning him by the upper arms.

“You’re coming back.” It’s a demand, not a question – as if it could ever be a question. Sleep is unavoidable. You will grow tired eventually, you both know this, and yet – “Right?” – ears pressed flat against the sides of his skull.

Freddy Krueger is firm muscle and sinew in your hands, your starkest contrast. He is a nervous smile with crooked yellow teeth. a greedy, possessive, perverted pain in your ass. He won’t leave you alone, he takes everything personally, and he obligates you to entertain him.

“’Course.” Hands around face, a final kiss, merciful enough to plant it on his lips. “Always do.”

(You wouldn’t trade him for the world, not this one, not the next, not the one growing solid around you - not a chance.)


End file.
